Adam's Halloween Party
by athousandelegies
Summary: Crowley persuades Aziraphale to attend the Halloween party Adam has invited them to. Occurs a year after the Almost-Apocalypse.


_Author's Note: Here it is, my Halloween-related Good Omens fic! It's mostly just silly, so pay no mind to whatever small continuity errors I may have committed. I meant for the whole thing to be pure crack; something happened to the end of it, though, so I apologize for the sudden mood shift from ridiculous to pensive-I swear it was completely unintended._

_It's past one o'clock in the morning now, golly, I meant to finish this up in the afternoon to get it posted in time for the other side of the world's October 31. Ah, well, if you're reading this from the Eastern hemisphere, I apologize for my tardiness. In any case, I hope you enjoy, and happy Halloween!_

* * *

Had Aziraphale been human, the knock at his bookshop entrance would have caused his blood pressure to skyrocket, even though he'd been expecting it all evening.

"Angel, open up, I know you're there," a muffled voice called through the door. Aziraphale could tell Crowley was trying to will it open, but a fixed glare from him was enough to keep it locked tight. The poor thing was quite literally shaking on its hinges, as though trying to decide whom it would rather offend—an agent of Hell, or Heaven's fussiest Principality.

"I said I wasn't going, and I meant it," Aziraphale huffed through the trembling wood. "Now go away."

"Come on, you prat, you agreed we should keep tabs on the kid, didn't you?"

"I said we should check up on him occasionally, not attend his Halloween party."

Even through the wood he could hear the demon's exasperated sigh. "Ugh, _ssstupi_—look, don't you remember what happened to your door the last time we had a contest of wills over it? Stop being ridiculous, and let me in already."

Thoroughly irritated now, but deciding it wasn't worth finding splintered wood and scattered bits of door handle in strange corners of his bookshop for weeks to come, Aziraphale yanked the door open. He had his fiercest glower on his face, prepared to release the full might of his annoyance on his friend—but it gave way to a look of utter bafflement as Crowley came into view.

"I—you…_Crowley_," he finally gasped out, "what in Heaven's name are you wearing?"

The demon was dressed, well—not like a demon, that much was certain. He was robed in white from head to (snakeskin-covered) toe. A wire halo was poised crookedly in his dark hair, and a harp was tucked under one arm, along with a large brown paper bag. A ludicrously fake pair of wings—Aziraphale was almost positive they were made of cardboard with white feathers glued precariously on—was strapped to Crowley's back. And Aziraphale had a terrible feeling he knew exactly what was in that paper bag.

"Well, how do I look, angel? Or should I say, demon—look, I've got your costume right here."

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Aziraphale watched as Crowley pulled a headband sporting two plastic red horns from the bag.

"Oh, no, if you think for one instant I'm going to go dressed as a—"

"Adam _said_ the party theme is Opposites. We're supposed to wear costumes that are the reverse of our personality," Crowley insisted as he pushed past the flustered book dealer to saunter into the shop. "And you know how cranky he gets when things don't go his way."

"Well," Aziraphale snorted, "he can go ahead and have his silly temper tantrum, and see if I care." But both he and Crowley knew exactly how foolish it would be to do anything that might annoy the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness. And therefore, as Aziraphale could tell by the smug look on the demon's face, both of them knew exactly how this argument was going to end.

"Oh, all_ right_. Give me that, then," Aziraphale snapped, roughly seizing the bag from Crowley's hands and stalking off to his backroom to change.

A few minutes later, Crowley heard a voice before he saw a form emerge from the backroom: "I swear to Someone, Crowley, if you say _one word_ I'll smite you so fast you won't even have time to flick that ridiculous tongue of yours before you find yourself You Know Where."

Then the angel-turned-devil emerged from behind the doorframe, his pudgy cheeks red—either with annoyance or embarrassment, Crowley couldn't tell which—and irritation rolling off his aura in waves.

It took greater self-control than the demon had known he possessed to keep a straight face as he looked his friend over, from the blood-red suit and the horns rammed on top of his curls, to the pitchfork gripped so tightly Crowley was surprised the plastic didn't snap in two. "Not a word," he agreed in a carefully level voice, inwardly marveling at his own restraint. He motioned for the door. "Shall we?" And with a mocking tip of his halo he bowed the fuming, horn-bedecked angel out of the bookshop.

Some while later, the Bentley pulled up at the Young family's house, and its two passengers made their way up to a door draped in gauzy, artificial spider webs. Crowley's halo got tangled up with one of the plastic bats dangling from the front porch ceiling, and Aziraphale, still bad-tempered, sniggered meanly. Crowley, however, was in high spirits, and good-naturedly disentangled himself before reaching out to ring the doorbell.

The door was opened by a short figure who positively radiated energy. His sun-tanned face had the healthy look of a growing boy who got plenty to eat and spent the majority of his afternoons running wild. On top of his close-cropped—but still, somehow, disheveled—hair was a yellow paper crown, and a purple blanket was draped like a cape over a faded blue t-shirt.

"You came!" he crowed, and his delight seemed a tangible thing, galvanizing the chilly evening air.

"Of course we did," Crowley grinned.

"Because you'd blow up half of England if we didn't," he just barely heard Aziraphale grumble beside him. He jabbed a sharp elbow into the angel's side.

"Behave, will you? This is a kid's party," he muttered. "Besides, I'll make it fun, I promise."

"Heaven help me," Aziraphale groaned.

"I don't think so, angel—not when you're dressed like that." And he pulled his companion in after him as Adam motioned them inside.

"I wrote in the invitation to come dressed as the opposite of yourself, but that's okay I guess," Adam chattered as he shut the door behind them.

"We did—why else do you think I'm dressed as Heaven's handsomest harpist?" Crowley responded, bemused.

"Oh, your costume's fine, Mr. Crowley. I meant Mr. Fell's." He turned to the perplexed-looking book dealer in his devil's garb. "I said _opposite_. That word means to dress what you're _not_ like, doncha know?"

It took them both a moment to digest his meaning. Then Aziraphale began sputtering incoherently, while Crowley doubled over in silent hysterics.

When Crowley had recovered from his laughing fit—assisted by a withering look from his counterpart—the two of them followed the barely-adolescent spawn of Satan down a hallway.

"So," Crowley said to Adam, still struggling to choke down the laughter threatening to bubble up from his throat, "if we're supposed to be dressed as our opposites, how come you're wearing a crown?"

"'Cause I'm not a king, of course," Adam replied simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged glances. "Fair enough," Crowley said. "Er, who else is coming to this party of yours?"

"Well, Wensley and Brian are already 'round here somewhere," he replied. He looked around the dimly lit living room he'd led them into, which was decked out in still more fake spider webs, as well as a plastic skeleton and a table covered in an orange and black cloth and laden with treats and cider.

"While you're finding your little friends," Aziraphale said, making his way for the desserts on the table, "I'm sure you won't mind if I just—Gah!" He dropped his pitchfork and tumbled backwards into Crowley as two white-draped figures jumped up from behind the table, shouting "Boo!" in boyishly high voices.

Crowley was overcome by yet another fit of laughter as he pushed Aziraphale off him. "Your face," he managed to wheeze, "if you had just seen the look on your face—this night just keeps getting better and better."

"Is that cider alcoholic?" Aziraphale asked Adam coldly after he'd recovered his breath, if not his dignity.

"You mean grown-up stuff?" Adam said, his youthful face going serious. "'Course not, or the cops'll come."

Crowley pulled himself together and performed a quick waving motion in the direction of the punchbowl. "There, Az, it is now." He figured it was the least he could do to see his friend through the evening. "Don't drink too much, though—it's a part of your angelic duty to set a good example for these bright young things you see before you."

Aziraphale scowled, but Crowley had carefully crafted a sincere expression, so the angel said nothing, and merely hurried his way over to the cider.

Crowley noticed that the two sheet-clad forms were staring at him from eye-holes cut clumsily into the fabric. The one sheet, though white, was somehow dingier than the other, as if its wearer just couldn't manage to keep anything clean for the life of him, and there was a crinkling when he moved, as if he were carrying crisp packets with him. The other had thick, black-rimmed spectacles visible through the eye-holes. They were, of course, Brian and Wensleydale. "Dare I ask why you came dressed as ghosts?"

"Well," began Wensleydale, eyes wide and serious as ever behind his glasses, "my mum told me I couldn't waste money on a real costume—"

"We're the opposite of ghosts, 'cause we're not dead," Brian interrupted.

"Ah. Isn't that…pleasant." Crowley had forgotten how unsure of himself he tended to get around kids, when he wasn't in the process of tempting them—even after six thousand years, he hadn't figured out how he was supposed to respond to the bloody bizarre things they always seemed to say. He glanced over to where Aziraphale was nursing a glass of cider and thought he wouldn't mind joining him.

The doorbell rang, and Adam ushered Pepper in; with her silk skirt and flower crown she was, as she informed them, "a fairy princess."

"I don't _like_ wearing this dumb girly stuff, of course," she declared, glaring at them all defiantly from beneath the wreath of flowers adorning her short red hair.

"Who cares if it's girly or not," Adam replied sincerely; "you look real nice, Pep." She relaxed after that, and even demonstrated for them how the gossamer pink skirt rippled when she twirled in it.

Not long after, Newton and Anathema made their appearance, trailed by none other than Sergeant Shadwell and Madame Tracy.

Newt and Shadwell had come as witches, both seeming to think it an incredibly witty and funny thing for witchfinders to dress up as. Therefore, both seemed rather put out when Adam stated that he really didn't think there was too much difference between a witch and a witchfinder at all—"they're certainly not opposites, I mean."

"Is that cider o'er thar alcoholic?" Shadwell asked testily in his implacable accent upon being informed of this fact, and then shuffled over to join "the southern pansies" in their drinking.

Anathema hadn't put on any costume at all, explaining to Adam that it was "too childish"—but when Pepper placed her flower crown on the young woman's head, she didn't object, and wore it for the rest of the evening willingly enough. Madam Tracy was arrayed in a nun's habit and wimple, to both Shadwell's and Aziraphale's obvious disapproval.

After his first glass of cider and the assurance that no, neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had extra nipples, Shadwell was willing enough to converse with the southern pansies—even though one of them was dressed as the devil. After his fourth glass, he began wandering around the room, trying to get everyone to guess where he'd painted on a third nipple for his witch costume in a loud, rather slurred, but very jovial voice.

Anathema and Pepper were engaged in a lively discussion about witches and the protest "against the stifling injustices of a male-dominated social hierarchy," as Pepper's mother would have put it, with Madam Tracy listening placidly and throwing in the occasional comment, while Newton, Brian, Wensley, and Adam played some strange version of charades that Adam had devised.

Mr. Young came downstairs to check on them at one point. If he was at all perturbed by his son hosting a party that involved several clearly inebriated adults, he didn't show it (while Adam's parents normally had as firm a grip on him as any parents should have on their child, he occasionally did assert that peculiar authority of his). However, he didn't stay long; after Shadwell shuffled over, clapped him tipsily on the back, and boomed, "Bet ye canna guess where mah third nipple is—and I don't suppose ye 'ave any extra nipples of your ane?" he decided it would probably be best for everyone if he made his way back upstairs to smoke his nightly pipe in tranquil oblivion to the ruckus taking place in his living room.

Around ten, Brian and Pepper announced almost simultaneously that they were bored, and, to Crowley's horror, Aziraphale took this as an opportunity to bring up his "skills" as a magician. To the demon's relief, however, Adam only considered this for a brief moment before responding, "Nah, magic shows aren't what you do for Halloween. How 'bout we tell ghost stories instead."

He directed them all to sit in a circle on the floor, except for Madame Tracy and Shadwell, who were provided chairs. Aziraphale and Crowley discreetly sobered up—the cider had done its job, at least, for Aziraphale was no longer so grumpy.

"Let me go grab a torch," Adam said, scampering off down the hall. When he returned, he flicked off the lights, leaving them in darkness but for the single beam of the torch in his hand. The youthful antichrist held the torch under his chin, so that the beam cast his face in eerie shadows, and grinned evilly, making Crowley and Aziraphale shudder instinctively. "Okay. Who's gonna tell the first story?"

"Me!" Brian volunteered eagerly, but Pepper and Wensley raised a fuss—"No way!" "Your scary stories always end up bein' about dumb old skeletons or fake-soundin' werewolves and stuff"—and so Adam judiciously denied the proposal.

"I've got a good one," Anathema spoke up. The Them looked suddenly nervous, even Adam; who knew what kind of terrifying tale a real live witch could cook up. But Adam bravely passed her the torch. Holding it under her chin so that the torchlight threw her face into sharp angles and glinted ominously along her dark hair, Anathema began: "This is a true story, the account of a certain witch who lived about three hundred years ago, right here in Lower Tadfield itself. She loved the taste of child flesh…"

The story was indeed a chilling one, told in Anathema's straightforward, ruthlessly clinical tone. "And that's why, to this very day, if any kids are foolish enough to wander past the chalk quarry in the light of the crescent moon, they vanish—forever."

She ended her story, and all were silent for some while, each looking furtively around at shadowy corners and trying not to appear too scared.

The mood was interrupted by a belch from Sergeant Shadwell, who was gradually sobering up. Crowley took this as a cue to say, "I'll go next—and I've got to warn you, it's even worse than Anathema's."

The Them looked positively terrified by this proclamation, and even Newton looked uneasy. Crowley collected the torch from Anathema and started, "Now, most humans are dying to hear a little bit about what goes on in Hell, am I right?" He paused, but not a one of them seemed to register his joke. A little disgruntled, he ploughed on. "Anyway. You lot don't have to wait for death for a sneak preview of what's in store for your poor, damned souls, because I'm here to give you—" To his annoyance, Aziraphale shifted slightly beside him and sniffed meaningfully. "_What_?"

"Well, I just think it's a little misleading to speak as though all of them are doomed to, you know, Down There, when actually—"

"Shut it, angel. _Anyway_, I'm here to give you, er, a brief tour of what to expect when—um, _if_," he glared at Aziraphale, who nodded encouragingly—"you find yourself wallowing in the Abyss."

Crowley launched into what he thought was a riveting and bloodcurdling account of some of Hell's more inventive tortures, and was startled to be interrupted by an unbelievably loud and drawn-out yawn from Pepper.

"I told my mother I'd be back home by eleven," she told Adam.

"Yeah, me too," piped up Brian. Wensley nodded in agreement.

"Oh, well, looks like we're gonna have to stop your story, Mr. Crowley, sorry," said Adam, hopping up to switch on the lights. They all blinked blearily in the suddenly cheery glow.

"There, now, dear," said Aziraphale as everyone began to stir, leaving Crowley nonplussed where he sat; "I thought it was a perfectly scary story. Now let's be going too."

"It _ought_ to have scared the pants off them," Crowley complained, allowing himself to be helped up by his counterpart, who had lost his horns at some point and mislaid his pitchfork and so was looking more like his usual angelic self again—except dressed in a brighter red than he'd normally wear, and with a noticeable lack of tartan. "Don't they know it's _true_?"

"Let's hope not, dear," Aziraphale responded, after they'd said their farewells and stepped out into the chilly night air. "Isn't that the point? Somehow, Adam's got all their memories blurred about just what happened that day when, you know, the Apocalypse…didn't happen."

They walked unhurriedly together towards the Bentley parked at the curb. It was a crisp, clear night, with the stars burning brightly in the black expanse stretching far above their heads.

"That's something I wonder about—how much _does_ Adam know? He must realize his power, surely, and then there was the thing tonight, with his costume…that paper crown…"

"Perhaps," Aziraphale began—then paused, and then began again, as if not entirely sure what it was he wanted to say; "perhaps the crown was his way of reassuring us that he has no plans of using his power to influence more than his tiny sphere here in Lower Tadfield. What was it he said? That he's 'not a king'—even though I get this impression that he _knows_, to some degree, that he _could_ be king—oh, I don't know, Crowley, does that make sense?"

"You're saying he invited us to this party of his specifically to let us know he's still intent on rejecting his role, whatever he understands that role to be?"

"Does it sound terribly silly, then?"

"Yeah. …But, I think you're right." Crowley sighed, and his breath crystalized in the air before him, a smoky cloud of vapor wafting heavenward before dispersing into the night. He plucked the halo from his hair and absentmindedly massaged his scalp. "That kid is smarter than we'd give him credit for, I'd wager."

"Indeed," Aziraphale agreed. He gave the demon a small smile that seemed to convey both fondness and deep weariness, a tiredness that transcended millennia. "These humans, my dear boy—another six thousand years could pass before the end of the world comes at last, and I still don't think I'd have them figured them out by then."

They'd reached the Bentley, but neither made a move to get in; they stood together in silence, looking towards the Young house. The front door was open, yellow light streaming across the grass towards them, but not quite reaching them. As they watched, Anathema, Newton, Shadwell, and Madame Tracy all made their way out, their cheery voices audible from across the yard as they wished Adam goodnight.

After Anathema had headed down the path for her cottage and Newton had bundled Shadwell and Tracy into his car to drive them home, Adam was left alone in the doorway, framed in golden light. His silhouette merged the black outline of the crown on his head with the black outline of the rest of his body, so that the one seemed inseparable from the other. However, as Crowley and Aziraphale looked on from down the drive, he took it off, turning it thoughtfully over in his hands. The thoughtfulness in his gaze, if they'd been able to see it, was far more ancient than his twelve years could account for.

His father—his biological father, that was—had mulled over power and chosen it over the bliss of Heaven. He, who had been named Adam by human parents and raised in a pocket-sized Paradise, a cozy little patch of Earth called Lower Tadfield by the few people who had heard of it, chose the comfort of loved ones over all the riches in the world.

He looked up and noticed the two beings watching him. Dropping the crown, so that it rolled away into the hall behind him, he waved. They waved back, and angel, demon, and antichrist alike smiled in a way that was genuine, human.

Adam closed the door, drawing the patch of golden light that had spilled across the lawn back into the house. The angel and the demon, in their arguably mismatched costumes, climbed into the Bentley, Crowley tossing his cardboard wings into the backseat before settling down behind the wheel. The familiar chords of Queen's "Princes of the Universe" began to play as they drove into the autumn night.


End file.
